


Fic: A Princely Scent (Harry/Draco, NC-17)

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Armpit Kink, Light BDSM, M/M, Voyeurism, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An underarm is so delightfully clandestine, a truly secret little area of the body, almost shockingly sexual when finally revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: A Princely Scent (Harry/Draco, NC-17)

**Author's Note:**

> I am a happy admirer of armpits myself, and I wrote a little armpit moment into one of my fics recently. The reaction I got from one of my readers made me realise that this could be worth exploring further...  
> Thank you so much to [Omi_Ohmy](../users/Omi_Ohmy)  for taking on yet another challenging beta job.  
> Thank you to [Marianna_Merlo](../users/MariannaMerlo) for kinky enthusiasm.  
> Thank you to [Melusinahp](../users/Melusinahp), whose work inspired me a lot while writing this.

I'm not exactly sure when I first realised that I had... let's say, a special interest in this particular part of the body. I definitely remember experiencing some pretty stirring feelings in the changing rooms after Quidditch: all those sweaty, warm bodies stripping off their gear... and then soapy, wet bodies in the shower, lathering up and sluicing themselves with water. However, I imagined that such a reaction was really no surprise. On the contrary, it was to be expected for any young man who'd found that he was an awful lot more interested in other young men, than he was in girls.

Hogwarts life was, in general, both a torment and a delight, sexually speaking. Lying in one's bed at night was usually accompanied by an erotic montage of the day's images, parading before one's closed eyes.

Blaise, for instance, all lean limbs and sculpted muscles, rubbing a soapy hand up his sides ( _my hand stroking carefully under the bedclothes_ ), along his shoulders, the shower drenching them with spray. Me standing next to him in the shower, trying desperately not to look (or, at least, not to get caught looking), but my eyes being drawn to him as if Summoned. His long, dark fingers smoothing the soap along his skin ( _my thumb smoothing over the sensitive head_ ). Blaise rubbing over the downy hair on his chest, and then dipping almost nonchalantly into the dip of his armpit, rubbing more attentively there where the hair was thicker ( _gripping tighter, my cock pushing through the circle of my fingers again and again_ ), arm raised as if to flaunt that perfect little hollow in my direction, the coal-black curls that nestled there ( _oh god the curls - my other hand trailing across my bollocks, imagining the curls, springy against the pads of my fingers_ ), the soap and water dripping ( _oh god_ ), dripping ( _fuck, yes_ ) from the tangle of his hair ( _my cock pulsing a long streak of come onto my shuddering stomach_ ).

Or on another occasion, I might shut my eyes and try to imagine that my own body was someone else's, that the neck I stroked with firm hands was not mine but the wonderfully well-built Adrian Pucey's, that the flat stomach I ran a wet finger over (the sensation of a finger which has been well-licked is quite different to that of a dry one, don't you find?) was his. The ribs my palms skimmed - his. The underarms my fingers tremblingly stroked - his. The hair in my armpits was silky and very fine. I thought about his denser ration, wiry and assertive. What would it feel like to push my fingers against those bold tufts, to rub between my thumb and fingers and feel the scratchy coarseness prickling there? The tickling, teasing sensation from my own hands pleased me, and I pictured a faceless man licking a broad stripe along the tender skin there and making me wriggle with the delightful over-stimulation. But it was the image of myself pressing my face into a helping of luxuriant underarm hair that sent me over the edge and left me gasping with the force of my orgasm.

There wasn't much about boys' bodies that didn't turn me on: the swell of a tight arse; strong, masculine hands, fringed with hair at the wrist; the lovely swing and sway of a naked cock and balls glimpsed in dormitory or changing room - it was all good. However, I gradually became aware that the hidden valley beneath a man's arm was what sent me absolutely, cock-stiffeningly, insane. Thinking about sucking a boy's cock could get me hard, in no time at all. Thinking about nuzzling into a boy's _armpit_ could make me feel like my jutting erection had been carved out of stone. A man's so-called private parts – well, they aren't really that private, are they, once you're undressed? They just flop out, for everyone to see. Whereas an underarm is so delightfully clandestine, a truly secret little area of the body, almost shockingly sexual when finally revealed.

I also started to become somewhat of a connoisseur of the scents left on people's clothing. My own was pleasing enough, but, to me at any rate, frankly rather unexciting. However, when I grabbed Blaise's robes on one occasion, rushing out in a hurry, thinking they were my own, I soon became aware that they were infused with an altogether more beguiling aroma. As I sat in Divination, the warmth of the room released the intriguing smell and I was soon enveloped in a musky, sensual haze. A persistent tightening of my trousers necessitated excusing myself to go to the lavatory. Once safely behind a locked door, I buried my face fervidly in the folds of the robes, searching for the most strongly marked places. Blaise's body odour was a wondrous thing and I spent a gratifying interlude picturing myself pressed up against his alluringly scented skin, rather than the unresponsive fabric.

So I continued to indulge myself in my rather harmless interest. I don't want you to delude yourself that I had any particular romantic interest in Blaise. When you live at a boarding school, you don't have a lot of choice over who takes the starring roles in your fantasy life. I felt exactly the same way about him as I would have done any other tall, fit, handsome young man I was forced to spend days and nights in close proximity to. You probably think I sound like a complete deviant, but, believe me, we were all at it. The impending war just made it worse. We were desperate for anything to take our minds off the pressure of the storm we felt looming.

I was content enough to use my fellow students fairly interchangeably when I wanted someone's arse to eye up in the showers, or someone's attractions to daydream about while having a languid wank before bed. That is, until the day I managed to run smack into Potter, who stopped abruptly in front of me to adjust his Quidditch leathers as we were both coming off the pitch. The ground was muddy and treacherous, and my momentum was such that I couldn't perform an immediate halt. We collided, slipped in a cartoonish fashion, tried to right ourselves, and ended up slithering to the ground in a muddy tumble, him on his back and me arse over tit on my front. Potter's elbow lodged painfully in my ribs, his knee jarred my hip, but my face... my face was jammed snugly against his armpit.

My heart was already going at a fair speed from the workout I'd just had in the air. Seeker is not a position for the sluggish, and Potter and I took the game at a more punishing pace than most, due in part to our notorious rivalry. It was a cold day, but we'd both worked up a sweat, to put it mildly. And my nose and mouth were now flush against the sweatiest part of Potter's body. The heat from it blazed against the chilly skin of my face. The smell of him - Merlin. I will never forget it, as long as I live. My heart was pounding a tattoo in my chest. I had thought Blaise's brash and fruity smell was enticing. It was like comparing the taste of butterbeer with a Lafite Rothschild '82.

Potter smelt lush and spicy, fresh, sweet, and sultry, all at the same time. He'd evidently been going full pelt up on there his broomstick, and, by god, he smelt it, too. However there was nothing stale or obnoxious about it. He smelt of honey, grass, fresh air, treacle tart, sunshine and ripe cherries. He smelt of leather, smoke, blood, salt, sap, roast chestnuts, and the sea on a stormy day. Potter smelt like a fucking god. I wanted to bury my face in him and sob with joy. I wanted to roll over and beg. I wanted to strip him naked and rut against him till the sun went down.

My cock was hard against his leg and he could almost certainly feel it and I didn't care in the slightest. My senses were completely overwhelmed with Potter and his insanely delicious scent. My mouth opened of its own accord to moan, and the soft wool of his jersey brushed gently against my lips. I imagined I could almost feel the shape of his armpit hair pressing through the material. Any blood remaining elsewhere in my body rushed to my groin, and my vision actually blurred. I think I would have fallen, if I had not already been lying prone. In the circumstances, people assumed the sudden slip had disorientated me. I was helped to get up, as was Potter, who gazed up at me, dazed and wide-eyed, and I was guided back to the changing rooms, where I stripped off my muddy robes and stood, trembling, under the water, eyes closed and mind full of nothing but Potter.

After that, there was never really anyone else for me. I could try to think about Dean Thomas's full mouth, and how it would look wrapped around my cock, or even the tantalising glimpses I'd got of Montague's bollocks the previous week, between his parted legs as he bent over to dry himself, but it was always Potter and his extraordinary smell that my mind would turn to at the last moments, just as the pressure building in my balls became an unstoppable force.

Bloody Potter. I learnt to look for his head of revoltingly unkempt hair everywhere, breath catching in my chest at the sight of him appearing round the corner. His lanky body and glass-green eyes suddenly seemed to be just my cup of pumpkin juice. The transition from intense dislike to almost obsessive preoccupation, was effected with such speed and smoothness that I wondered how long I'd been deluding myself that I was heading in anything other than this direction. I dissembled, of course. In truth I resented so greatly the hold he had on me, that dislike was anything but hard to feign. The problem was, that when leaning in to deliver a choice insult or threat, I was prone to be distracted by a determined twitching of my cock. However, robes are marvellous things for hiding under. They can also disguise inconvenient tremors in the hands.

At the Manor, when I failed to identify Potter, I knew damn well it was him: I could smell him. Smell the dirt on him, and the sweat, and the fear. It made his usual scent more sharp, piquant, a hint of acidity there under the musk and the salt. It was rolling off him in waves. And it was the sole most erotic and terrifying experience of my life. It made me stammer and shake. I told them that I didn't recognise him – that I couldn't be sure it was him, with his face all messed up like that – but the truth is I would have known him in the dark, would have known him blindfolded, would have known him at twenty paces with my back turned. I could never mistake the princely scent of Harry Potter for anyone else, not in a hundred, thousand years.

That smell goes straight to my prick and wraps itself around it like the most sinful and practised mouth. It dances into my nostrils, nudges up against my parted lips and licks a path inside to slide down my throat. His smell seduces me – slays me – his smell fucking owns me. I was lost, but now I am found. It's a revelation. The smell of Harry Potter is nothing less than an unceasing epiphany, pure and simple.

The universe never fails to amaze me in its strangeness. I know I personally still find it hard to believe how things have turned out, and don't think I don't know what goes through other people's heads when they see us - Harry and I - together. After all, why would _he_ be bothered with someone like _me_? But I am not without my charms.

Watching Potter, as I did almost compulsively throughout the rest of that year, it was a simple matter to note that he was not unmoved by the appeal of a neat little arse, or a soft and pouty mouth. I didn't find it too difficult to ensure that it was my arse which caught his attention. No, the surprise is that messy, drunken encounters, and a string of one night stands, no matter how ludicrously intense, were only ever going to be partway to fulfilling the primal, slightly twisted need we both have for one another.

The gods have been kind to me, indeed. Who could have guessed that my life would be spared, that I would survive the war? That I would even, in my small, cowardly way, help to save Harry – that one time, at least. Believe me when I say, I give the most heartfelt thanks for my life, and for the things I am permitted to do, virtually every day if I want to – and oh, Merlin, do I want to. Because Harry is mine now, and the things he lets me do make me weep tears of gratitude.

He finds my predatory worship, my feral adoration, suits him quite well. And in return, he gets, amongst other things, an outlet for all those nasty frustrations that build up over the course of a day's work.

Harry steps in through the Floo, all furrowed brow and squared shoulders, his Auror's uniform tight across his chest and his boots dusty. He's been chasing Dark wizards for twelve hours solid, and all he wants to do is get out of those grimy clothes and have a bath. He's wound tight as can be, his fingers twitching unconsciously toward his wand holster as he glares around our distinctly Dark wizard-free home. I know how to loosen him up, how to unknot those muscles – and it certainly doesn't involve letting him anywhere near the bathroom just yet. Oh no.

I circle him, hungry and wary at the same time. He's everything I want, but even now, I can hardly believe that he's going to give it to me. I tilt my head back slightly and flare my nostrils, wondering if I can smell him from here. He frowns at me, sensing what's coming already.

"That was an absolute Horntail of a day. I'm just going to get cleaned up and then crash out, OK?" His voice sounds like it's been dragged over a pile of rubble.

I don't answer, except to step behind him and slip one hand underneath the jacket of his uniform. I can feel the heat and dampness from his body through his tunic, and a corresponding sweat breaks out on my top lip. I lean in towards his neck, moving to rest my chin against his shoulder. My breathing is fast, but shallow. I don't want to get a lungful of him... not yet. Not _just_ yet.

"Harry... " I murmur.

His back twitches where I'm leaning against him. "Ah, Draco. I'm all fucked up, really. I just want to... "

"Shh... " I reach around to place the tip of my finger against his lips. "Don't talk. I'll get you a drink and help you get ready."

His body sags slightly at the soothing words, tension dissipating just a little, and I press my open lips softly to his neck. "Let me look after you," I whisper onto his skin, a tang of salt teasing my tongue as I speak.

His shoulders relax another few millimetres as I rub gently along his spine. I try to stop my hands from shaking, and make myself go slowly. The tunic is sticking slightly to his back in places: the rough, damp fabric scratches the pads of my fingers. My senses feel especially acute, intensified by need.

_Softly softly_ , I tell myself. My hands want to grasp, to possess, but the quarry will be all the sweeter for a more lengthy pursuit. I make myself draw away from him, move to the counter and fix his drink the way he likes it. Sparing with the ice, generous with the Firewhiskey. I pass him the heavy tumbler, and watch as he takes a long swallow and his adam's apple bobs and dips. I imagine how it would taste to lick along the line of his neck, the stubble harsh against my tongue.

"Ahhh... " He closes his eyes as the alcohol slips warmly down the inside of his throat. "Merlin, it's good to be home."

My eyes focus on his strong fingers gripping the glass, his thumb rubbing along the beads of condensation. He leans against the counter, a slouchy, brooding shape. He's not inviting me, but he's not stopping me, either. I feel slightly startled by the degree of my own desire, my pulse drumming in my ears. I don't fetch myself a drink. I want to be sharp, not fuzzy, and I want his scent in my nose, in my throat, not the grating rasp of Firewhiskey.

I reach out to his jacket, run my fingers along the short, upturned collar. "Let me take this off for you." I slip one of the silver buttons smoothly through its hole. My nostrils flare again – I can't help it. Another button slides unfastened. I imagine the dark circles sullying the fabric under the arms of his shirt. My breath is coming a little faster. I bet he's been running, straining with the effort of quickfire spells, panting for breath, sweat trickling from his temples, across his face. Drops trailing down his back, to pool at the base of his spine, where the belt cinches his trousers. The uniform is so thick, so constraining. Harry curses it every time he has to put it on. I want to kiss whoever designed it. Another button, and another. HIs jacket is falling open, now, and I can see the shape of his chest outlined under the tunic's coarse fabric. He takes another drink and watches me undressing him, his face serious and surly. His eyes glint dangerously in the dim light of the room.

One more button... two... and I am guiding the jacket off his shoulders. God, I can smell him. I'm more than half-hard already, adjusting myself surreptitiously as I move to hang up the jacket. I reach for his belt, jittery with the need to get the tunic loose and get my fingers underneath it, but he pushes my hands aside and unbuckles it himself. I love this moment, the moment he decides the whole thing was his idea. I wet my lips as he snakes the belt out of the loops and tosses it aside. A little whine escapes from my throat and I edge my fingers along his waist, rubbing the hem lingeringly, making myself wait another few moments.

He leans back, takes up his drink again and looks at me questioningly over its rim. I cannot resist the challenge in his eyes. I duck my head to nuzzle into his neck, breathing deeply; simultaneously I reach up under his shirt and let my fingers trail over his torso. _Fuck_. His skin feels on fire against my chilled fingers, and slick with sweat. At the same time, his smell washes over me, earthy and mouth-watering. My tongue dips into the hollow of his collarbone. It's divine: salty and sweet together. My cock is full and heavy, straining against the buttons of my fly. I trace my hands in small circles, feeling the wetness along his ribs. I reach higher and let my teeth sink in gently to the crook of his neck. He groans and my fingers find a slippery path up towards his underarms. With the first sensation of hair brushing against my fingers, it's almost too much, and I have to stop again and calm myself, before I lose it, standing here fully clothed.

Harry's eyes are closed and he's put his drink down on the counter, so he can use his fingers on my hair, taking handfuls in his big fists and holding tight at the crown. His knee is nudging between my legs, knocking them apart so his thigh can press against me, hot and weighty.

I'm mouthing his neck and already I'm begging. "Harry... Harry... god, take me to bed. Please, Harry... " He grunts assent, and walks me into the bedroom backwards, gripping my arms bruisingly tight, layering Firewhiskey kisses on my face as we go. He pushes me down on the bed and pulls his tunic over his head. My mouth feels completely dry. I lie back, looking at the line of hair leading from his stomach, trailing down into his trousers. I get a sudden flash of memory from the first time we did this: the wide-eyed disbelief that his body really could be this perfect, and that he would let me touch it. My eyes dally over the hair between his nipples, soft and messy. I wish I had the words to describe how much I want him. Slowly, slowly, I allow myself to look at the hair under his arms. _God, it's perfect_. Thick, soot-black and slightly heavy with moisture. He's undressing me, roughly pulling off my clothes, leaving me on the bed in just my shirt.

He bends to kiss me, his tongue sweeping aggressively into my mouth, and then crawls over me, using one hand to undo his flies. I'm pinned underneath him, but as he fumbles with his clothes, I have to stifle a smirk of triumph; I am exactly where I intended to be. His cock is thick and swollen and he pushes the head of it along my face, marking my cheeks and lips. I can smell the musky, fierce smell of him as he pushes my lips apart and thrusts into my mouth. I savour the sweetness of submitting. The taste of him is something wild. Harry's thighs are pinning my arms, and my mouth and nose are flooded with his scent as he rocks into me with a restrained brutality. The bed is banging against the wall in time with his rhythm. He watches my face intently, then throws his head back with a groan. His thighs judder and he's spilling down my throat in delicious bursts, his face contorted. He lets himself flop onto the bed, flushed and spent.

This is my moment. Now he's unguarded and slack, his muscles loose and his expression vacant. My eyes maraud possessively over his body. His chest is bare, still damp and heaving. His trousers hang open around his thighs, his cock softening and resting heavy against his skin. I shiver at the sight of his mired boots, grubbing up my pristine sheets. I make my move. Crawling over him, as he did to me, my eyes fixed on my prize.

'Harry', amongst other things, means to pillage, to ravage, did you know that? I give thanks to every mysterious force in this odd old universe of ours, that has brought me to this moment where I am free to harry Harry.

His smell is insinuating itself seductively into my nose. Soon, soon I will allow myself to breathe him all in, but for now, even the shallower breaths I am taking are making my head swim, as if dosed with Amortentia. Ah, the potion of love! You know, no doubt, that it mimics the smell of the things each person finds most attractive. Toothpaste, parchment and such. The person can usually identify three or four different elements within the fragrance. Not so with me. On the rare occasions that I have smelt Amortentia since I was fifteen, it smells simply of Harry. And it makes my knees weak.

I straddle his chest and lift his arms above his head, pinning them first with my hands and then with a binding spell. The shimmering, silvery ropes draw his arms tauter still and hold them together at the wrists. "Draco... " he grumbles, but there's no heat in it. "I'm knackered. Let me... "

"Shhh... " I gentle him, petting his sides with the soft strokes I know he likes. To be frank, he has to be joking if he thinks we're leaving it there. My hands sweep over his chest and up to his armpits, laid out for me to feast on. I don't touch – yet. My hands pass over them and just barely graze the hair, the contact making my cock twitch beneath the linen of my shirt. A little moan is building in my throat. Harry shifts, rolling his torso slightly, trying to get comfortable against the magical restraints. The hollows of his underarms twist, displaying every secret inch to my avid gaze. I bend to pay homage. My nose nuzzles his left armpit, rubbing, and breathing in glorious gulping lungfuls.

"Draco... " the grumble comes again. "You're so freaky about my armpits. " It's more of a mumble, really. I'm not listening in the slightest, anyway. The smell is breathtakingly erotic. I'm making muffled growls as I rub my face from side to side. The dampness is clinging to my face and I rub my jaw all over the hair and get myself nicely covered. There's a slight pull as my stubble catches on it, as I seek the inner, most heated surfaces. _Fuck, that feels good. I'm going to reek of him_.

My tongue peeps out and I just touch the point of it to his skin, there. I just want to get a tiny taste of the spicy muskiness in my mouth, but I don't want to lick it off, I don't want him clean. I want him messed up, just the way he is. It bursts with salty flavour on my tongue and I lick my lips. His sweat is cooling on my face, making the skin prickle, and I can taste it on myself as I run my tongue along the corner of my mouth.

I sit back up and pull my shirt up a little so I can take my cock in my hand. It's hard and leaking and so very sensitive. I rub the head against his chest, then his nipples, trailing it through the hair surrounding the hard nubs, first one side, then the other. He shudders and tenses against the bonds, but I don't release him. He's right where I want him. I wriggle up a little further, until my cock is brushing against the edge of his underarm. The hair... his hair... I have to stop a bit just to swallow, because there's too much saliva in my mouth all of a sudden. His hair... it's satisfyingly thick, but soft, too. I want to wrap a little curl of it around my finger. I push my cock right into the middle of it, where it's fiery and humid. The smell is completely intoxicating. I am high on Harry.

I push my hips forward slowly, loving the drag and slide of it, the slippery skin and the friction of the hair both together. I start to thrust, fucking his armpit with a lazy, unhurried motion. He's looking up at me, shagged out, his stubble thick and sharp, with dark circles under his wicked, half-closed eyes. Having his arms over his head like that shows off his muscles to perfection: tensed and powerful, but currently helpless. His hair's falling over his face and he can't brush it away. He looks debauched, and devilish. He looks like he's mine.

I don't delude myself that I am the first person Harry's been intimate with. I'm not even the first man. Not even close. But although I've never asked in so many words, I don't think anyone else has ever had him quite like _this_. No, I suspect I am the first, the one and only, to truly expose his hidden, furtive little concavities and take my pleasure with them.

Words fizz on my lips, uncontrollably, like bubbles rising to the surface of champagne. "Merlin, you're so sticky, and now it's all over me, Harry." My movements are becoming erratic, pre-come pooling and mixing with his sweat in the hot, damp bowl of his armpit, slicking my path as I start to lose my tightly-guarded control.

"People are going to smell this on me and know that Harry Potter comes home and fucks me. It's like you've claimed me, you've marked me with your scent. No-one else is going to dare lay a finger on me now; I'm your property." I can hear my voice becoming breathless; my blood feels like it's coming to the boil. "You've messed me all up like you've messed up the sheets with your dirty boots, you dirty fucker, Harry; you're such a filthy, dirty fucker."

I hiss with the intensity of it, then cry out, watching as long spurts of come anoint his armpit. I almost expect them to sizzle on the furnace that is his skin. Tremors are running through my body. I'm dizzy with it, and have to lie down, curling myself against him with my face resting against his other armpit, the unmolested one. It takes me a moment to remember to release the bonds, but when I do, he pulls me to him, lips soft and curling.

"You're such a git. Why do you even like doing that?"

I know he's not really expecting an answer. As long as we both get off, neither of us gives a fig about what questionable things might help us get there. He's drifting towards sleep already, wrapping a custodial leg around me. Spending the night with Harry Potter is like nothing so much as being in bed with an overgrown, shaggy, possessive dog. I push the rumpled hair off his face and his eyes flutter open.

"Mmm... it's actually sort of nice... " he murmurs drowsily.

"Me stroking your hair?" I ask, doing it again.

"Nah... that thing you do." His chest rumbles and I realise he's chuckling, sleepily. "That... armpit thing. I kind of like it. It's, erm... weird, in a good way. Like you." His mouth is twitching up at the corners.

"That's a bit rich, coming from the freak of nature who thinks dying is something that's only fatal for other people."

I press a kiss to his disgusting Gryffindor face. I feel weightless, buoyant, as if I could drift away but for Harry's ballast to anchor me. At that moment, I am as close as I have ever been to the certainty that I love him. I cast _Nox_ , and then there are only afterimages of light floating in front of my eyes, like grateful prayers rising up to whoever it is that watches over us.


End file.
